


Not-So-Animal Instinct

by Verkaiking



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, OQ Prompt Party 2018, Outlaw Queen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verkaiking/pseuds/Verkaiking
Summary: For Outlaw Queen Prompt Party 2018 - Tuesday (Day 2)Set in the Missing Year.





	Not-So-Animal Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts:
> 
> #13 - Robin or Regina get turned into an animal unbekownst to the other who ends up caring for them for a bit before the curse is broken and then it’s all like awkward….you liked me as a fox.
> 
> #47 - Magic spell gone wrong, Robin accidentally turns himself into a fox while fiddling around with one of the vials in Regina’s vault.
> 
> #60 - Missing Year and it’s Roland’s birthday
> 
> #171 - Fireworks.
> 
> #178 - Regina cares for a sick Robin during the missing year.

He shouldn’t be here.

She’s told him not to approach her vault, to stay clear of everything in it, but Robin has long given up the pretense of listening to her. He probably should, in this particular occasion (one never knows what magic might be stored in this most lugubrious enclosure, and she didn’t earn the moniker of  _ Evil _ Queen for conjuring rainbows), but there’s something unbelievably alluring about the space.

She hides here, he knows, and from the day he met her, Robin has wanted nothing more than to unravel her every secret, so this place draws him in like moth to flame. He doesn’t know what he’ll find, what manner of dark spells and potions lie hidden behind dusty vials and battered books, but he’s taking it all in like the wonder that it is; breathing deeply as he tries to pick a place to start, with no other motive than wanting to unwrap her every layer, get to know her a bit better, despite her many attempts to keep him at bay.

So maybe he shouldn’t be playing around with the potions he’s currently perusing, but Robin is enthralled by all these little mysteries that have made the Queen the sole focus of his heart lately.

And, well, if he happens to find the potion that makes the magical, animal-shaped fireworks his son loves so much, that would be a great bonus (she’d shown them to him once, Roland has told him excitedly, conjured dragons and griffins and all manner of mythical creatures out of a tiny bottle and lit up his chambers with the shapes). It’s his boy’s birthday tomorrow, after all.

Each vial before him holds liquid of a different color, and he pauses on the green one, so bright it seems to be glowing in the cavernous room, calling to him with a hue so deep it reminds him of the forest he loves, the forest he’s been seeing less of since he moved into this castle.

The stopper comes out easily enough, and a small puff of green smoke escapes the tiny bottle. Suddenly it smells of grass, of wet dirt and rain, pleasant, but definitely not fireworks.

It’s as he moves to put it back that everything unravels.

Someone (Ruby, if he guesses correctly) is calling for Princess Snow upstairs, and the loud voice breaking through the silence startles him enough that he drops the little container to the floor, glass shattering instantly and green, thick liquid oozing out in every direction. The spill stretches too far for such a small amount, and it takes him a minute to realize it’s not stretching exactly, but rather slithering towards him, clinging to his boots and his trousers, climbing up his body as green smoke envelops him.

Next thing he knows, he’s on the ground outside, looking up at the castle. His vision is sharper, more vibrant, colors brighter and more alive. He feels strangely light on his feet as he walks, but there’s something about his height perception that is wrong...

And then his eyes settle on the reflective surface of the stream that runs along the edge of the castle grounds.

There is reddish brown fur where his hair used to be, his stubble replaced by whiskers and a furry white coat that lines up perfectly with his... snout?

Oh, he really should have stayed away from this vault.

* * *

It’s his son’s birthday, and the thief is nowhere to be seen.

She loathes him (she doesn’t, not really), but she’s always respected him for being such a dedicated parent, and yet here they are, on the morning of his child’s fifth birthday, and Robin of Locksley is missing.

Luckily, the boy has yet to wake (and how convenient for the thief, that Roland has chosen today of all days to not rise with the sun like he usually does), but she’d woken up to the hurried whispers of his men meandering the halls, calling  _ Robin, Robin are you here? _ in hushed tones as they turned every corner, though their efforts had gone unrewarded.

It’s ridiculous. So much so, in fact, that she’s taken to joining the search, walking down the forbidden corridors of the castle (because she’s seen the mischievous glint in his eye when she’s told him not to come here) in search for him. Snow, ever one to state the obvious, has suggested that he probably just got held up _ , _ laying a comforting hand on Regina’s shoulder (as if she needs comforting over this, pfft) and insisting  _ I’m sure he’ll be back soon. _

But the sun is now high in the sky, and Regina can hear the excited screams of “It’s my birthday, Uncle John!” from Roland just a few feet away from her own chambers, and she’ll be damned if that poor little boy will spend his special day feeling sad and abandoned by his own father.

So she gives up the search, for now, and walks to the boy’s room, putting on a fake smile that becomes quite genuine the second she pushes open the heavy wooden door and is welcomed inside with an enthusiastic “Majesty, it’s my birthday!”

“Indeed it is!” she answers, taking a seat on his bed, her legs perched on the edge of the mattress as she runs a hand over his unruly curls. “Happy birthday, Roland.”

“Papa is taking me to the big oak tree in the forest today!” he tells her for the millionth time. “We’re going to look at the stars from the highest branch and then howl at the moon like wolves!”

“Are you, now?” Regina asks, chancing a glance at Friar Tuck, who stands by the corner quietly as he watches them (watches her, she’s sure, they don’t trust her, these Merry Men, and she can’t say she blames them). He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, looking a little lost as to what to tell Roland.

Right, it’s up to her, then.

“I think your papa is caught up with a hunt and will be a little late today, so why don’t we go to the stables so I can introduce you to the horses? I could even teach you how to ride one.”

“Yes!” he says happily, thinking nothing of the excuse or his father’s absence, and Regina is thankful for small miracles. At least entertaining him until the thief shows up won’t be too difficult.

She leaves Roland with Tuck, so he can take his morning bath and dress for the day while she conjures up an epic breakfast. Because lost father or not, she’ll be damned if that little boy doesn’t get the most wonderful birthday of his life while he’s under her roof. The kitchen empties as soon as she arrives, her look of determination more than enough to get everyone to scatter, and then she begins, mutters incantations as she puts together chocolate chip pancakes and crispy bacon with her magic, calls in berries from the forest with a wave of her hand and sets everything in place. By the time Roland comes bouncing into the kitchen, the heavy wooden table to the side is laden with goodies, and he tucks in happily.

“Where is he?” Regina hisses at John when he walks in.

“I’ve no idea,” he whispers back. “Last night he told me he was going to go find Roland’s present and I haven’t heard from him since. He may still be looking.”

“What gift could possibly take him all night to find?!” Regina asks, keeping her voice as hushed as her rage will allow.

“I’ve sent Much and Alan to look for him, they’ll let us know if there’s anything we should be concerned about.”

She nods curtly at him, and is starting to step away when the burly man lays a far-too-gentle hand on her arm and murmurs a far-too-comforting, “We’ll find him, Your Majesty.”

His face is all weighed down in concern, but not for the thief, for  _ her _ . He’s reassuring  _ her _ . As if she needs it, as if...

“It’s not me you should be telling that to,” she snaps.

“Oh, um... yes. Alright,” John stammers, “sorry.”

And then he walks further into the room, and all he does is shrug, his face arranged into somewhat of a neutral expression so as not to alarm Roland when he asks about his papa.

“He’s still out hunting, lad, but I’m sure he’ll be back in time for dinner. How about I take you for a walk in the forest while we wait for ‘im? We can go find water slugs in the river.”

He hasn’t even finished the sentence when Roland is shaking his head, and John looks quite distraught when he asks, “You... you don’t want to go play with water slugs? Are you feeling okay, boy?”

“Majesty’s gonna teach me to ride a horse!” he informs his uncle, who throws Regina a wary look.

“I thought it’d be a nice birthday treat for him. A good  _ distraction _ _,_ ” she says pointedly, and John catches on, nods his head and wishes Roland a grand old time at the stables.

“Can we go now?!” the boy asks, fully energized and with a mouthful of pancake still waiting to be swallowed.

“Finish your food first,” she tells him with a smile, “the horses aren’t going anywhere.”

“Are you gonna eat with me?” he questions then, and Regina supposes there’s no harm in joining him for a bit of an indulgent breakfast. It’s his birthday, after all.

Once their spread has been devoured (the amount of bacon she’s eaten would make Henry proud, and it stings to think of it), she and Roland both sit on a bench by the big castle doors, putting on the necessary garments for horseback riding. She’s dusted out the red velvet riding coat she never thought she’d wear again, and has thrown it on over a warm, high-collared lace tunic and black leather trousers, taking the time to stretch her legs in her riding boots and announce that she’s ready, only to look to her right and find Roland still struggling with his laces.

The image is quite endearing, and she kneels before him to help, tying the thin leather straps with practiced hands and tapping the boy on the knee to let him know he’s good to go. His excitement reminds her of when Henry was this age, when he’d find everything wonderful and new, when she was his hero and his friend and his everything because she showed him the world when he asked for it.

The walk to the stables is a brisk one, interrupted only by the rustling of a haystack as they enter, the horses whining a little at the slight disruption.

Regina’s protective instincts kick in immediately, and she puts an arm out to shield Roland and bring him behind her, telling him to stop and wait.

“What is it, Majesty?” he asks, his voice so low she almost can’t hear it. She doesn’t exactly know how to answer him. There was a storm last night, so that rustling could be nothing but a squirrel or a stray rabbit who’d gotten stuck here for the evening, but Regina also remembers the rustling in the woods from a few weeks ago, that vicious flying monkey that had gone after her, after Roland before she turned it into the stuffed animal he sleeps with every night...

“I’m not sure. I’ll go find out, you wait here, alright?” she tells him, and sees him nod out of the corner of her eye. Still, she adds, “And Roland? If you see something bad, if I scream, or if anything goes wrong, you run as fast as you can back to the castle. Promise me.”

“I promise, Majesty,” he affirms, hugging her legs for a moment (Henry used to do that during thunderstorms when he was a toddler, barrel himself into her legs and hold tight until the scary noises outside began to ebb) and making her breath hitch with the sheer, unbidden affection of the gesture. Regina pivots slightly so she can reach him, running her hand over his hair in a reassuring gesture, and once he lets go, she stalks slowly forward, keeping her footsteps as light as she can while trudging in the mud, until she reaches that haystack, and finds a fluffy, reddish tail sticking out of it.

Right, not a flying monkey, then.

Exhaling her relief, she turns to Roland and beckons him over, smiling when his approach is less measured than her own, his little legs carrying him at a sprint to her, a giant dimpled grin plastered on his face.

“It’s just a critter,” she informs him. “He was probably looking for a place to hide from the storm last night and found this.”

“Can I see?!” the boy asks excitedly, and Regina smiles, telling him to please let her check first.

Sure enough, the poor beast is huddling under the hay, trembling in the morning chill, his fur wet and muddy, eyes half-closed as he moves his head around, looking quite disoriented.

“Oooh, poor doggy,” Roland mutters, his head peeking over Regina’s shoulder when she crouches to inspect the animal.

“He’s a fox,” she corrects softly, “not a doggy.”

“He’s hurt.”

She looks over the matted fur, hovers a hand over him and lets her magic search for injuries.

“No, not hurt, just a little shaken from the cold, but he’ll be alright once we take him inside,” she tells Roland, who beams at her.

“We’re keeping him?!” he squeaks.

“Just until he’s back on his feet,” Regina warns, smiling a little when his face falls. “And then you can visit him in the forest whenever you want.”

That seems to appease him enough, and then he’s helping her move aside clusters of wet, muddy hay (it should be dry, clean and crisp for the horses, and she makes a mental note to come by later and fix whatever leak caused this mess), revealing the sad excuse of a fox lying underneath.

He’s shivering, but seems to lean into Roland’s touch when he reaches for him, huddles in the boy’s arms and looks up pathetically at Regina with eyes she thinks look somewhat familiar, but can’t quite put her finger on why.

Back at the castle, she sits with Roland and his new temporary pet by the fire in her library, all thoughts of horse riding forgotten. To her relief, however, the birthday boy seems entertained enough to not ask about his father despite the lack of activity,.

The fox is still shivering, looking skinny and sickly with his drenched fur and sad eyes, and Regina can’t help but feel this... protectiveness over the poor thing. She wants to take care of him, the same way she always wanted to take care of wounded animals as a child, and for some reason that callback to simpler times helps her feel less alone, distracts her from missing Henry if only for the hour or two they sit by the fire and work vigorously to nurse the fox back to health.

“We can give him some food, he looks hungry,” Roland offers, and she smiles, nods and tells him there should be berries in the kitchen, the ones his uncle John picked yesterday with Ruby.

“I’ll find them!” he vows, then dashes off out of the room, leaving the animal in her care.

She looks at it for a moment, wondering why a beast that’s supposed to be adept to the wild seems to feel so at ease within her stone walls. He’s comfortable in a way she’s never seen a forest creature before, not exactly happy but... pleased.

“Hi,” she says softly, extending a hand to the beast. “I’m Regina.”

He still seems a bit disoriented, his eyes shifting all over her face as if attempting to convey some kind of urgent message. He’s scared.

“It’s okay,” she insists, her voice as tender as she can manage. “I won’t hurt you.”

The fox stays perfectly still now, as if waiting for her to move closer. When she’s sure he won’t bite, she closes the distance between them, picking him up from the hearth and sitting him on her lap, watching as he shifts a little and cuddles closer to her stomach.

“Oh, you’re a bold one, aren’t you?” she asks, rubbing a tentative hand behind one furry ear and smiling when the animal closes his eyes and rests more cozily against her. He trusts her, Regina realizes, and she delights in that, scratches behind his ear a little more firmly, using her other hand to rub under his chin and down his neck when he tilts his head up, one of his hind legs shaking reflexively.

He’s dog-like and docile, sniffing at her hand and licking it when she offers him the berries Roland dutifully brings in with him not ten minutes later, and they spend the better part of two hours there, playing with their new friend and watching as he slowly dries off and becomes a bit more chipper in his exploration of the space.

But the novelty wears off after that, and Roland suddenly notices half a day has gone by and his father has not appeared. It’s his birthday, he reminds Regina, “Papa has to be here.”

“He will be, sweetheart,” she promises, she’ll do a locator spell later, when Roland is sufficiently distracted that she can slip away. A part of her worries a bit, because as much as she might dislike the thief, he’s never disappointed his boy, and the fact that he seems to have chosen his birthday to do it reads oddly to her. There have been no flying monkeys in the last few days, no threats from her newly emerged sister or any other enemy they might have in this forsaken kingdom, and the protection spells Regina has placed around the perimeter haven’t been activated, so Locksley is most likely fine, but it irks her that of all days, this is the one where he seems to be delayed. It makes her wonder what kind of present he’s after.

She tries to put it out of her mind, to leave that anger for when he does finally show up, and heads down to the kitchens to prepare a birthday lunch Roland will never forget.

Regina brings out her magic again, waves her hands around the stove and counter until pots and pans and serving plates are all in their appropriate positions. She cooks up a mouthwatering roast beef, serves it sputtering hot and encrusted with herbs on a long wooden board, roasted onions and sprigs of rosemary on either side. She’s added rolls and gravy on the side, with mashed potatoes, peas and carrots in separate bowls to offer color and balance to the meal.

Roland is ecstatic upon seeing it, the fox resting comfortably in his hold as he moves around the table and points to every dish, letting the beast get a good sniff from each one before he sits and digs in, once again distracted from his father’s absence. He places his new friend on the floor beside him, and Regina can see the boy’s intent of feeding scraps to the beast, but it seems their foxy friend isn’t exactly fine with that plan.

He seems distraught somehow, pacing from Roland to Regina with agitated huffs and shrieky barks, like he’s attempting to talk. Or protest, more likely. Berries are good, yes, but probably not enough for an animal that spent who knows how long without food.

Still, “This is for the humans,” she tells him with a grin, shaking her head when his whining grows louder and warning, “Do you want to be stuck in the hall while we eat?”

That seems to quiet him, but it doesn’t stop his pacing or his strange stares from Regina to Roland, to John and the men, and then back to Regina.

“I know,” she whispers jokingly, “I don’t know why I keep such company either.”

She does know, though. Roland. His adorable smile and his unrelenting trust in her, the way he makes her laugh even when everything else is terrible and grim. He’s been the sunlight in her darkness since they arrived at this castle, and she wants to give him everything.

But he is not her child, he’s Robin of Locksley’s, and that stupid thief has yet to return. Regina’s stomach is in knots, nerves slithering through her body as she wonders where the hell the man is, and what could possibly be taking him so long.

Their fox friend, for his part, fluffs up his tail indignantly, sticking it up into the air before he blithely jumps up onto the bench, docile and proper as he sits next to her spot and stares at her, as if waiting for his own plate.

It makes Regina laugh, the unexpected, casual sass from the animal a welcome source of humor in the midst of her worry (anger, she’s  _ angry _ that the thief’s not here, not worried, why would she be worried? He’s nothing to her. Absolutely nothing.). The Merry Men tuck in after chortling and toasting the birthday boy, devouring the food on their plates before Regina’s even done serving Roland’s.

* * *

He’s never felt so humiliated in his life.

His own son had to bathe him and feed him, what a disgrace.

And he’s hungry, so hungry, and all he’s been given is berries, some of them not exactly ripe. He can still feel the tart flavor of them in the back of his throat, mixed with the taste of dirt that somehow can’t seem to leave his tongue.

He’d tried to head back up to the castle after his little mishap, and instead wound up caught in the storm and huddling under the hay at the stables for warmth. He feels pathetic, is frustrated at the fact that he can’t seem to communicate with Roland or the Queen, that he has no idea how long this little spell will last, or how she’ll react when she finds out what he’s done. She’ll have his hyde, he’s sure, fox or human, it makes no difference, she’ll have it.

Still, there are some upsides, like the way she looks at him, eyes devoid of that special hatred she reserves just for him, that fire replaced with a softness the Queen usually only ever shows to his son. It’s a welcome change, that look, and he cherishes it, revels in the tenderness of her touch when she pets his red furry coat and rolls her eyes playfully at his efforts to speak, mistaking them for an attempt to procure a proper meal.

“Alright, you can have some,” the Queen tells him, scratching behind his ears again (had he transformed into a cat instead of a fox, he’d be purring right about now). “But don’t get used to it.”

He smiles (does it show, he wonders?), enraptured by this side of her, and leans closer to her touch for a moment. She pets him again almost automatically, and then leans over the table to grab an empty plate (hers, he realizes, and there’s a pang of remorse at the idea that she may not be eating because she’s too worried about his absence); piling bits of beef and gravy on it while no one is looking, and sucking a tiny bit of the sauce off her thumb when a few accidental drops fall off the serving spoon...

He knows how much it pains her to have lost her son to that other world, and he’s tried to be understanding, to offer comfort, but all she has for him are insults and glares. And that’s alright, he’ll take it, all of it, until she decides to open up. But right now she’s scratching the back of his head, rubbing gently over his back and placing a plate of delicious meat right next to him on the bench, a youthful smile breaking through the aged beauty of the scowl he’s used to, and Robin feels like the luckiest man —fox— in the world, because he gets to see it firsthand.

“Enjoy,” she whispers conspiratorially, looking down at her offerings, and he smiles again, then bends his head down and clumsily starts picking pieces of meat with his teeth, savoring the perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned magic of it.

He wants some of those mashed potatoes, the creamy, buttery appearance of it calling to him, the perfect side to go with the delicious roast beef. But foxes do not eat potatoes, and his longing looks at the serving bowl get mistaken for a gesture of begging for more meat, to which the Queen readily complies, unaware of his true craving. 

Still, he enjoys his dinner, and when he can’t charm more slices out of Her Majesty, it is Roland who picks up the slack, placing yet more roast beef on Robin’s plate and drowning it in sauce.

His mouth still waters for the mash, but a roast beef lunch is hardly terrible, so he takes what he can get, enjoys the meat and his bowl of water and the company. Much and Alan aren’t here, he notices, and feels guilty because this means they’re probably out there looking for him, trying to bring him home to his son where he belongs and missing the party because of it. John and Tuck keep Roland happy and oblivious, make him laugh while the Queen looks on and smiles, Robin’s own tail wagging with the merriment of the occasion. That is, until it’s time for dessert.

A massive, spectacular chocolate cake is brought out from the kitchens, Granny standing proudly behind it as Grumpy and Doc place it on the table, the rest of the castle now invited to the celebrations. The prince and princess make their appearance, and so does the rest of their diverse crew of heroes, each with a gift for his boy. Roland is excited, bounces and giggles and enjoys the attention, but when it’s time to sing Happy Birthday, he frowns.

“Papa’s still not back,” he says, pouting at his cake, and Robin breaks. His sound of frustration comes out as more of a howl than a scream, but it’s loud enough that everyone turns to him, the Queen raising a curious eyebrow, but her face softens when he jumps in Roland’s lap, cuddling into him in what he knows will be interpreted as a show of support rather than an apology.

He needs to fix this. Now.

It’s as they’re serving the giant slices of cake that Robin feels it. A gurgling in his stomach, something seizing and shriveling inside him, then expanding, and shriveling up again. He’s in pain suddenly, horrible pain, and he loses track of the sounds around him, the sights, everything, colors swirling until it all becomes one big blur as he stumbles on the floor, trying and failing to find his balance.

The Queen is somewhere off to the side, barking orders at Princess Snow, but he can’t quite make out what they are, his mind occupied by a kind of loud rattling he can’t seem to shake. 

Next thing he knows, everything goes black.

* * *

Regina has never seen an animal faint so comically. One minute the fox is there, eating and playing with Roland and the next it’s running out of the hall, stumbling and hitting every possible obstacle in his irregular beeline around the room. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the beast drank a whole gallon of ale.

“Is he okay?” Roland asks, and the worry in his tone makes Regina’s heart ache. The Merry Men all look bewildered by the fox’s escape, and Regina thinks she hears one of them tell Tuck that the animal should just be put out of its misery. When Roland’s eyes widen tragically at the whispered suggestion, Regina knows she’s heard correctly.

“That won’t be necessary,” she says, her gaze landing on Tuck, then softening as it shifts to Roland. “I’ll find him and bring him back to you after I’ve made sure he’s alright,” Regina tells him, instantly getting up from her spot.

“I wanna go with you!” Roland calls as she leaves, so she turns to him, trying to look calm as she explains that she’s got this.

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart, I promise,” she finishes, darting out of the dining room before the boy has time to insist.

She finds the fox by the main steps, trying to climb and falling in his desperation. One wave of her hand and she and the beast are both transported to the infirmary, a cloud of purple smoke disappearing in their wake. The short magical trip knocks the poor beast right out.

It’s funny, to place a wild animal on a bed intended for wounded humans, but Regina finds it easier this way to look the creature over. He’s shivering, though he doesn’t seem to be cold, his fur fluffy and dry and the skin underneath feeling actually quite warm to the touch. His fur looks a little lighter, paler, more blond than ginger now. Regina doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, and her hands tremble with her uncertainty even as she sits right next to him on that bed and pets him, hoping to offer comfort, if not healing.

He breathes with great effort, but her touch and her presence seem to ease his shaking, so she stays there, doing what little she can to make the poor thing comfortable while she examines her options. But before she can come to a conclusion on what to do, the fox seizes again, and his paws begin to stretch and lose their fur, sunkissed skin taking its place and smoothing out over the limbs. His ears shrink slightly, and his snout widens and sprouts a smattering of stubble Regina is all too familiar with.

Locks of caramel colored hair now frame the beast’s tired eyes, which seem to be losing their brown hue now. She doesn’t have time to see their new tint before they close, but the hand she’d been running over a sick fox’s neck now runs over the nape of Robin of Locksley, the aftershocks of magic wearing off and revealing his identity and the reason for his very strange absence throughout the day.

Regina is furious. She recognizes the magic now. It’s not hers, but it  _ is _ part of her collection. She’d taken some animal potions from the sorceress Yzma after winning a duel many years ago. The thief must have found one and stupidly used it on himself expecting something else. She’d warned him not to go to her vault, and anger courses through her at the defiance, the nerve, the complete disregard this stupid man seems to have for his own life. But he looks so helpless that she can’t help but stay there, watching over him.

He’s gasping for air, disoriented and weak, but his hand moves up to her face, rubbing a thumb there as he whispers a delirious _Milady_ before passing right out. And if her hand lingers at the nape of his neck, rubbing in soothing motions while he sleeps off his draining transformation, well, no one will ever know.

She doesn’t leave his side, steps out only for the two minutes it takes her to summon John through one of the guards. His sigh of relief upon seeing his friend and the worry for his health are short-lived, eyes rolling when Regina explains what got him to the infirmary.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he tells her, sounding truly so when he looks down at the thief and shakes his head in quiet exasperation.

“It’s not you I want an apology from,” she dismisses. “Now, please go downstairs and tell Roland his father will be right with him.”

“But he’s still sick,” Little John states the obvious, making Regina the one to roll her eyes now.

“I’ll take care of it, just go,” she insists, and locks the door once he’s out of the room.

It’s not as simple as it sounds, the “taking care of it” part, it’s been years since she’s done this, but she knows the theory of it. The physical toll magic takes on a person only goes away with time and rest (in the thief’s case a day at most), but it is Roland’s birthday, and the boy has waited long enough for his father.

She may not be able to  _ cure _ the fever, but thanks to her own magical prowess, she can  _ transfer _ it. It’s not pleasant, but she’ll do it. For Roland. So that he can have the stargazing birthday he wanted, up in the canopy of a tree with his father.

“I told you not to do anything stupid,” she barks at the sleeping man before her, shaking her head before she stands just a bit farther from the bed, giving enough room for the spell to work.

Magic tingles at her fingertips as she runs her hands over the thief, rays of purple light shooting out into him and feeding back into her while she murmurs the necessary words. She feels it already, the discomfort, the exhaustion weighing her down, the pain in her joints...

Once the incantation is over, the light stops traveling between them, leaving her frail and achy as she stumbles towards the bed, placing both hands on the thief’s chest and letting out a hoarse “Wake up, you idiot.”

* * *

When he comes to, he’s on a bed, his limbs heavy and sluggish and... human, he realizes. One arm lifts slowly from the linens, searching for the source of his disturbance, and then a smack to his chest and a raspy “Get up!” have his eyes opening instantly.

The Queen is there, staring at him with irritation flaring in her eyes. She goes to say something, to yell at him probably, but can’t quite get there, stumbling on her own feet and falling to her knees on the stone floor. Robin is immediately up, the heaviness in his body gone, and he rushes to her side, one arm wrapping around her waist from behind as he helps her up and onto the bed.

She sighs then, relaxes in the soft sheets, and shivers suddenly, sweat building at her temples.

“What did you do?” he asks, because last time he checked, he was an animal, and he was the one feeling poorly. “How did you—?”

“Potion...” she gasps, “wore off quick... you were...”

She keeps gasping, as if it pains her to speak every word, but doesn’t miss the opportunity to shoot him a glare and chide him for what he did. “The fever, I... transf— idiot! I told you not t—”

“Shh, shh, it’s alright, I got you,” he says, hopping on the bed by her side and helping her sit up. “Can you move us to your bedchambers?” he asks, and she turns to stare at him, wide-eyed and indignant, but he stops her retort before it’s even out of her mouth. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable in your own bed. Can you transport us there?”

She tries, he can see the way she waves her hand in that familiar motion, but the purple smoke is barely visible before it vanishes. She’s too weak. And he is not. Somehow, she’s made it so that whatever he was suffering seeped into her instead, and guilt wracks through him at the thought.

“Alright, shh, it’s okay, don’t stress yourself, it’s fine,” he tells her, then stands from the bed, hooking both arms under her, one at her back and the other at the fold of her knees, and lifting her from the covers. She weighs nothing, he knows that, has carried her in his arms before when she’s purposely put herself in the Wicked Witch’s path during their battles, passing out after holding magical shields or spells or whatever other manner of protections the prince and princess ask of her. Her riding clothes, on the other hand, are velvet and heavy, the coat billowing out beneath them, making him almost trip over the fabric as he moves through the corridors and up the stairs, until he reaches the heavily ornate door that marks her rooms and kicks it open.

Her dignified squeak of disapproval has him chuckling, and he only holds her closer, chances a look at her and finds her face sweaty and tired, her eyes sad and angry as they stare up at him.

“Right,” he says as he deposits her gently on the bed, “how can I help? How do we bring that fever down?”

“Just need to... sleep,” she says slowly, sounding defeated, but at least she’s caught her breath now, her chest rising and falling as she curls up into a ball, her hand reaching blindly for the pillowy cover.

“This is all my fault,” he states as he kneels beside the bed, hating the image of her so sick and frail.

“Yes,” she wastes no time in retorting. “I told you... not to go in there.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, but you didn’t have to do  _ this _ . I can handle a fever, Your Majesty.”

“Roland... needs his father on his birthday. Go to... your son. Get out before I... maim you.” She’s not out of breath, but she keeps pausing, like it pains her to speak, like she doesn’t have the energy for it, so Robin stops questioning her, stands and swears he’ll be back soon. He almost misses the “Don’t come back” she throws at him, her voice so soft he has to strain to hear it, but he does, and chooses to ignore it as he walks out the door.

John smacks him around the head when he enters the Merry Men’s quarters, informing him that Much and Alan have just returned from a fruitless day-long search.

“The amount of dangers that are lurking out there with that witch on the loose and you decide to disappear without leaving word?! Honestly, man,” John admonishes. “Messing with the Queen’s potions, seriously, Robin, what’s gotten into you?”

“Look, I’ve learned my lesson, Little John, may I please just see my son?” Robin says defeatedly, thinking of the Queen upstairs, ill and bedridden because of him.

“He’s with Tuck looking for more berries for his  _ fox _ ,” John replies with a glare. Robin sighs, preparing to head outside when his friend adds, “You scared him. You scared all of us. The Queen, too.”

With a firm hand on the man’s shoulder, Robin squeezes and says the only thing he can.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He’s just reaching the main castle doors when Roland comes running in with a basket, berries falling off of it as he moves with abandon, yelling out at Tuck, “Come on, Uncle Tuck! The fox needs us!”

“I’m afraid the berries won’t be necessary,” Robin says, and that basket falls to the floor as his son runs to him, jumping into his arms. It feels good to hug him again, to feel his peel of laughter in his ear when Robin tickles just under his chin.

“Did you see the fox? Is he okay?” his son asks, and Robin smiles.

“I’m afraid, my boy, that the fox was me.”

“What?!” his boy reacts, eyes widening and mouth dropping hilariously, hands flying to his cheeks as he denotes his surprise.

“I, uh... I did a naughty thing,” Robin confesses as he sets his son down on the floor. “I played with Her Majesty’s potions when she wasn’t looking and, um... I accidentally spilled one.”

Roland  _ Oh _ _s, then shakes his head as he chastises, “She told you not to play in her room.”_

“Vault,” Robin corrects, for the benefit of the disbelieving faces of his men, “And yes, I know,” Robin repeats, “I told her I was sorry. I got very sick with the potion after the fox costume wore off and she helped me feel better so I could come see you.”

“Well, where is she now?”

The question (and the unbelievably morose tone) comes from John instead of Roland, much to Robin’s surprise. He turns to his friend, glaring as he replies, “She’s resting. Healing me took a lot out of her.”

“Can we go see her, Papa?” Roland asks then, putting on that pout he knows Robin can’t say no to most days.

“She’s most likely sleeping right now, my boy, but we can check in on her in an hour or so, alright?” he compromises, and his son nods, looking not entirely convinced.

“How about we go get her some wildflowers?” Robin offers then. “You know she loves it when you bring her flowers, I’m sure they’ll help her feel better.”

His boy is, of course, thrilled with the idea, darting off to the doors again and yelling out a “Hurry, Papa!” when Robin doesn’t immediately follow.

“It’s gonna take more than flowers for her to forgive you, you know,” John volunteers, giving Robin a look of skeptical amusement.

“I know,” Robin sighs, “but I have to start somewhere.”

The forest is dense even in the safe spaces surrounding the castle, but there are small clearings between the trees that showcase wild daisies, dandelions, meadowsweet and yarrow flowers in every color, easy pickings for his overexcited boy. Roland has a marvelous time choosing blooms for the Queen, laughing and pointing out his favorites as they navigate the perimeter.

Robin, for his part, sets about collecting certain herbs he knows grow here. Peppermint and elderflower, a sliver of white willow bark he cuts from the tree with his trusty knife, all known remedies against fevers. He has no idea if it works for magic-induced fevers, but he has to try (this is his fault, after all).

Robin throws it all into a small burlap bag, keeping it tied to his waist with a strip of leather as he walks back to his son. There’s a cluster of tiny wild orchids up on a tree branch, Roland informs him, and Robin climbs the moss-ridden trunk with difficulty, stretching his hand as far as it’ll go until finally, he catches the coveted prize.

The result is a well-rounded bouquet, and they walk back to the castle looking quite pleased. Robin stops by the kitchens first, and Roland joins him, climbing onto the large wooden table and swinging his legs back and forth as he watches patiently.

Robin fills a pot with water and sets it on the roaring fire. He empties the little burlap into a mortar, then crushes the ingredients with a pestle until it becomes a paste, undesirable in appearance, but quite calming in its scent as he mixes it all together.

It takes him a moment to find a cloth, but by the time he does, the water is boiling and ready to go. He dumps a big dollop of the paste into the cloth, then closes it up like a little ball and twists the top to secure it, dumping it into the pot and letting the crushed plants infuse the scalding hot water, the cloth acting as a barrier so that no chunks of the paste end up in the tea.

He pours the liquid into the kettle after a few minutes, adds honey to make it a tad more palatable, and by the time he’s set up a tray and is ready to go, Roland is bouncing on the balls of his feet and rushing him. “What if she wakes up and we’re not there?!” he says urgently. “Come on, Papa, hurry!”

She’s stirring when they enter her chambers, eyes scrunched shut like that will somehow keep her from waking, her hand once again reaching blindly for the comforter she seems to have kicked off during sleep.

The fever has not yet left her, Robin notices. She’s still pale, and clammy, hair curled at her temples from sweating off the magical illness she took from him.

“Milady?” he asks, inching closer with Roland at his heels. “Someone’s here to see you.”

She opens her eyes then, finally, and it’s to level him with a glare, her hand wiping at her face and fiddling with her hair, tucking loose curls behind her ear and frowning inquisitively at him.

Roland chooses that moment to pop up from behind Robin, brandishing his large bouquet with a happy “Hi, Majesty! I brought you flowers!” that breaks right through her ire, a smile forming as her gaze zeroes in on the blooms his boy has picked just for her. Robin will never tire of watching her features transform at the sight of Roland. Never.

She takes his gift, making a show to take a good, long whiff at them before she places them on the bedside table, grinning still and murmuring a weak “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Papa said you got sick because you helped him,” Roland questions.

“I’m fine, dear, just need some rest,” the Queen tells him, and Roland frowns for a moment, looking deep in thought as he looks at her, then at the floor. Robin has no idea what’s going through his son’s head, but before he can ask, his five-year-old is running around the bed and climbing up into it, plopping himself down next to Her Majesty and declaring that he’s to spend the rest of the afternoon right there with her.

And Robin shouldn’t be envious of how casually his boy can just reach for her, without her wincing or lashing out at his touch, but he’s only human, and the way she beams at Roland and returns his tight hug has yearning churning tight in his stomach.

“Thank you, Roland,” she’s telling him. “But you should go enjoy your birthday. I’ll be alright, I promise, I just need to stay in bed and get some more sleep and I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“But I want to spend my birthday with you,” Roland counters, and that seems to take her aback, her breath catching.

“But... your father is here now. You had plans,” she insists.

“Roland,” Robin calls before the boy can reply, “I forgot to get biscuits for Her Majesty, would you care to go find some downstairs?”

He nods happily, forgetting the previous conversation, and runs out of the room faster than an arrow, hollering “Uncle Jooooooohhnnn we need biscuits!!!” in such a wildly loud voice that both Robin and the Queen chuckle as they watch him leave.

* * *

It’s when Roland is out of the room that Regina realizes she shouldn’t have let him go, because now she’s alone with the thief, and the way he keeps staring at her is making her blood boil (it’s making her heart flutter, too, but she’d rather die than admit that).

“Get out of here before I maim you,” Regina threatens, leveling him with an icy stare. It seems, however, that lying on a bed while sweaty with a fever doesn’t do much for her in the scary witch department, so all he does is look at her and smile. She wants to claw his eyes out for it.

Instead of listening to her, the thief sets the tray in his hands by her bedside, taking care not to damage the flowers Roland has given her, and then grabs the cup and kettle, pouring her some tea.

“Drink,” he tells her, “it’ll help.”

“I highly doubt your primitive remedies will be able to cure a magically-induced fever, thief,” she says scathingly, but takes the cup all the same (why she takes it, she’ll never know).

He then pulls the stool from her vanity towards the bed, sits on it and puts his hands over hers around the porcelain, steam rising between them as he insists, “Please, just drink it. At the very least, it’ll help you sleep.”

Regina hates looking weak in front of anyone, especially him, and it’s thanks to him that she’s like this in the first place, so all she wants is to turn him into a bug and squash him.

Except she’s very rarely been shown this level of kindness. She remembers getting sick in this castle as a young queen (these drafty corridors were no friend to her the first few years, and pneumonia was a common occurrence in the winter). No one cared, not her mother, not her servants, not even the king, who would always choose her illnesses as the perfect moment to take off on a vacational journey to the summer palace with Snow, leaving Regina to fend for herself.

It angers her that something as simple as a cup of tea when she’s sick moves her so much, especially when she wouldn’t be sick at all if it weren’t for the man who made said tea. But she can tell that he feels responsible, and it sucks the fun right out of insulting him for his actions. In fact, his guilt annoys her, because now those disarming blue eyes are fixated on her as he gives her the smallest of smiles and insists that she drink.

Begrudgingly, Regina brings the cup to her lips and sips, the thief’s own hands falling uselessly on the bed. She grimaces a little at the taste, but continues drinking, and he looks relieved at that, smiles at her and whispers, “Thank you.”

“Why were you in my vault?” she asks, hoping her voice sounds menacing enough despite her condition.

“I, uh... I wanted Roland to have fireworks for his birthday,” he admits. “The kind you made for him with the animals.”

“And you didn’t think to just ask me?” she snaps, gasping a bit with the effort.

“I didn’t think you’d want to take part in the celebrations,” the thief confesses. “I know how much you hurt for your boy, I didn’t want you to feel obligated to attend a party for a child while you so painfully miss another.”

That hits her square in the chest, both his concern for her and the mention of Henry. And her shock must show on her face because next thing she knows, he’s taking her hands in both of his and squeezing in reassurance. Regina snatches her hands away like she’s been burned, because she’ll be damned if this thief walks out of here thinking he can take such liberties with her.

She knows he’s attracted to her, can see it in the way he rakes his gaze over her figure when she walks into a room, in the way his eyes linger on her cleavage when she’s wearing a particularly enticing number (she’s taken to wearing those more often now, and tells herself it’s because they’re comfortable, not because of the appreciative moan she’s caught him trying to suppress more than once); and now he’s being  _ nice ,  _ caring, even, like he wants more than just... like they could... but they can’t. And she’s not about to let him think he has a chance.

He exhales, standing up and heading for the door, and she’s about to sigh her relief when she remembers.

“Wait,” she calls, and he turns immediately, almost as if he was expecting to stop him. His steps back toward her are measured, steady, and when he stands in front of her Regina can’t help but take in the state of him. He looks a little disheveled, but healthy, back to his usual, irritatingly charming self, even if his eyes do look a little sad, a little guilty.

“My vanity,” she mutters, moving her gaze away from him, speaking as if he were nothing but empty space as she orders, “there’s a pink bottle, and a small box with a star on the lid. Bring them to me.”

He raises an eyebrow, lower lip jutting out in a curious frown before he turns and does as asked, thankfully not speaking a single word.

When he walks back to her, his touch lingers as he places the items in her hands, his face looking down at their fingers rather than her face. Regina feels like smacking his hands away again. Because it feels too good to be touched with such kindness, and it makes that little seed of attraction she denies feeling for him grow and grow. And she can’t let it grow, she doesn’t deserve to.

The thief seems to think differently, though, because he’s now running his fingers up and down her knuckles, not saying a single word as he follows the movement with his eyes, and Regina decides that’s quite enough.

Moving her hands from his grasp in a brusque fashion, she looks over the items, making sure they’re exactly what she asked for, and then instructs him, “Take a pinch from the star powder and add it to the liquid in the bottle.”

Her voice is raspy, weak, and she hates it, but at least it’s clear enough for him to hear and understand the instructions, and Regina fights against her need for sleep as she watches him place the box and bottle on her bedside and do exactly as she ordered. But her eyes droop just as he’s taking the pinch from the box, and she doesn’t notice she’s dozed off until he speaks.

“You liked me, you know,” he says, making her eyes open in quick indignation. “As a fox. You liked me, I know you did.”

Regina only shrugs and murmurs, “You were quiet and well-behaved and didn’t get in my way.”

“But you liked me,” he teases, grinning.

She chooses to change the subject, looking at the now-purple liquid inside the bottle and telling him, “When you want the fireworks to appear, shake that bottle for ten seconds, then open it, make sure you’re outside when you release them, they’ll need space to expand, since I won’t be controlling them with my magic.”

The thief looks a bit taken aback by her words, then looks down at the bottle and sighs.

He offers her one of  _ those _ smiles, the ones that  _ affect _ her, furtive and seductive and far more intimate than it has a right to be, as he whispers, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

He heads for the door then, grinning still, and she stops him again, this time to her own surprise, as she tells him, “I prefer Regina.”

The thief turns to her, smile still in place, and gives her a nod, wishing her “Sweet dreams, Regina,” before he finally leaves her chambers.

And she’ll never admit it, but what finally lulls her to sleep is not the tea, or the soft, warm breeze that comes in through the window, but the memory of the smooth, raspy tone of his voice speaking her name.

 


End file.
